


Shelter From the Storm

by Lochinvar



Series: Talismen [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Boyhood - Freeform, Canon Related, Children, Demons, Donuts, F/M, Fluffyfest, Gen, Good Boy Sam, Good boy dean, Happy, Happy Ending, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kid Dean Winchester, Kid Sam Winchester, Little Brothers, Motel life, Normal Life, POV Outsider, Pie, Pre-Canon, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Protectiveness, Sam Winchester-centric, Slice of Life, Smart Sam Winchester, Snipe Hunt, Snipes, Talismen, Weechesters, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester, sammy winchester - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 07:08:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17976719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lochinvar/pseuds/Lochinvar
Summary: John leaves 10-year-old Sammy and 14-year-old Dean at a motel in suburban Denver. They accidentally fall into the welcoming arms of two best friends, an ex-waitress and ex-accountant, who give the boys a taste of normal and respite from the road. Happiness ensues.If you don't want happy and kind, move on.





	1. May and Francie

**Author's Note:**

> I live in Denver and have spent years on the road in motels just like this one. 
> 
> I own nothing; rely on the talent and kindness of strangers. 
> 
> No Beta; all mistakes are mine to claim and bear.
> 
> Kudos and comments and bookmarks much appreciated - thank you.

May looked through her bedroom window from above the motel’s business office. Snow flurries, deceptively light, had hung around the Front Range all day and laid a couple of inches of powder on the western Denver suburb by mid-afternoon.

So far, only a few thrifty tourists had checked into the aging lodging. The bulk of her customers were the long-haul truckers, the ones who didn’t want to challenge I-70 west through the mountain passes at night. The regulars had yet to arrive, pushing through the last miles of daylight from Indianapolis.

She knew one of the truckers would be happy to shovel and salt the walk around the building for beer money and a chance to stretch cramped limbs after riding a double-shift.

A few of the drivers already had called ahead to reserve their rooms. May would wait up and make sure they had hot coffee and awesome glazed donuts for their check-in snack. (Her culinary secret? The local big-chain grocery had a retired Navy pastry chef running the bakery. Best. Donuts. Ever.)

Her night auditor, Francie, had shown up early, giving May time for a quick nap before finishing up second shift at the front desk. Ran a comb through her cropped brown curls; grey roots were showing. Like her mom, she would go white before her 40thbirthday. Would look good with her blue eyes and coffee au lait skin.

Took her a minute to make her way downstairs.

May’s uncle had left her the business, and, to her surprise, she enjoyed being in charge after twenty years of waitressing. As the old joke ran, she could work part time, and it didn’t matter which 16 hours a day she clocked. Was breathing life back into the 18-unit property, hidden in a corner of a formerly thriving industrial park.

She knew firsthand how tough it was to live paycheck-to-paycheck. She offered working class folk a clean bed and plenty of hot water in the morning. No frills, but a kind smile at the end of the day and plenty of cheap carbs to fuel their mornings, aka a “Continental breakfast.”

She and Francie exchanged greetings. The cheerful older woman had been an accountant with a high-priced law firm on Denver’s notable 17th Street, the former cowtown’s equivalent of Wall Street.

Retired, widowed, children scattered across the continent, Francie was happy to work for the pittance May could offer. Loved wearing jeans, Hawaiian shirts, and Western boots after a lifetime of custom grey suits and designer high heels. She stopped coloring her hair and wore it long and straight, a mix of silver and faded gold, pulled back in a pony tail. Showed off her Slavic cheekbones and lovely complexion, inherited from her Russian mother.

Francie flirted with the truck drivers, brought flowers from her garden to brighten up the lobby, and was a fierce and knowledgeable advocate for the business when tax agencies overstepped their authority.

Once the Internal Revenue Service sent May a five-page letter demanding $20,000. Francie sent back 20 pages explaining why her friend owed nothing. The women framed the apology letter and hung it in the upstairs bathroom so that May could start her work day with a smile.

\-----

A big black muscle car pulled up, challenging the wind off the foothills with a throaty growl.

The driver, a gruff man with bloodshot eyes, worked out a deal. Rented a room for a week in exchange for his older son, Dean, doing chores. Haul trash, sweep the sidewalk, help May in the laundry, fill the soda machine, clean rooms. The kid was bright and charming. Sixteen his father said, but even though he had the height and shoulders, she wondered.

The younger boy, Sammy, looked frail in comparison to his brother. But his eyes were sharp, taking in everything.

He’s smart, said the father. He can find a way to work, too.

Sammy nodded, eager to please.

May made the deal in part because of what the sons were wearing: the uniform of the chronically poor. Ill-fitting jeans that revealed thin, pale ankles, sneakers with holes in the toes over lumpy socks, and not-quite warm enough canvas jackets, which once belonged to someone bigger.

In deference to Colorado’s winter weather, under the jackets both boys were swaddled in layers of outsized sweaters and plaid flannel shirts, the kind sold in truck-stop convenience stores. Under it all Little Sammy wore a man’s black t-shirt that billowed over his knees.

No hat, no scarf, no boots, no gloves. They stood stiffly, listening to their father’s admonishments like the small soldiers they were.

The Impala roared off an hour after the family checked in.

Didn’t take long for May to fall hard for both boys. She wondered what she was going to do if the man didn’t come back.

\-----

She made sure Sammy knew it was fine if he filled his cereal bowl up three times in the morning with the generic sugary flakes and toasted oat rings.

Let the brothers fire up the microwave for their canned tomato soup and mac-and-cheese anytime. Sammy got to push the buttons.

She told the boys the extra servings of food were tips for good work. Bagels and oranges and bananas from the skimpy continental breakfast buffet and free sodas and candy from the vending machines. She bought cheap cold cuts courtesy of the nearby gas station’s upright cooler, so that Dean could make sandwiches on toast, and much to Sammy’s delight, melt the cheese. Another opportunity to play with the microwave.

May made sure there was enough for seconds for both boys and insisted that Dean take his share. As long it was something for Sammy, Dean accepted the small gifts with no hesitation.  But she crossed the line several times. Both boys would stiffen, she realized, if they thought an offer was too much, would weaken them, somehow make them vulnerable. Somehow imply the absent father was not doing his best by them.

She was the same way, at their age. Poverty was an embarrassment. It nibbled away at her self-esteem. Put a target on her back, beholding to manipulative do-gooders. Took her years to realize that not every gift had a hidden price. Some people were just nice.

May told Sammy that he could park all day at a side table in the lobby if he wanted to. No desk in their tiny room. He piled up a stack of books to read, and really study, like an older kid, taking notes on plain typing paper in old-fashioned cursive. The books were not what you might expect a 10-year-old kid would be reading. College-level history and math textbooks and thick volumes in Greek and Latin. A little intimidating for high school dropout May.

Dean had a daily ritual. He stayed with Sammy every morning, during and after breakfast, to make sure he was eating right. Watched the cable sports channels on the big television in the lobby while snacking on dry cereal and pastries. Would eat a piece of fruit if May demanded it. Drank milk and juice but would sneak a cup of coffee.

At breakfast May would see Sammy talking to some of the truckers. Mostly family men; a few couples enjoying the road together and supplementing their meager retirement income, meaning Social Security based on the withholding from a lifetime of low-end jobs. But now, they got to be paid for driving a nice leased truck and seeing the country, just as if they were rich snow birds following the sun in a fancy RV.

Dean would watch the conversations with the focus of the well-known neighborhood cat observing a band of sparrows discussing the weather as they pecked seed from the motel’s driveway. Francie had a feeling if any of the men had tried anything with Sammy that Dean would have leapt across the lobby, claws and fangs elongated.

When he finished his version of breakfast, Dean would polish off his chores. Worked hard. A good young man.

He then would come back to the lobby and ask Sammy if he would keep May company, with a wink to her. She would nod and smile. Then the older boy would disappear for hours, on what he vaguely described as errands.

Little brother Sammy was smart as a whip. Would take breaks from his studies to help May. Liked to file invoices and mastered the reservation system in no time. Customers thought it was adorable, the little boy with the serious face, staring at the computer screen through a veil of bangs.

Sammy seemed fine with the arrangement.

Francie told May that Sammy was “gifted” and expressed hope there would be resources to pay for the kind of opportunities he deserved. In her old immigrant neighborhood back in Chicago, they told the joke that the smartest kids had three career choices: medicine, law, or the mob.

Francie had gotten a whiff of criminal class off of the sullen father with his broken nose and scarred knuckles. The stains on his clothing.

The bulge of the gun under his coat.

\-----

Before it grew dark, Dean would return. Made them dinner: soup, pasta, bagels, fruit, and milk for Sammy. Could be worse. Plus, whatever May felt she could get away with adding to the meal without hurting Dean’s pride as provider. He obviously doted on the younger boy.

But as the shadows deepened, Dean would grow uneasy. He would signal his little brother.

“Come on, champ, time to go,” and they would trudge back to their room.

Dean would oversee Sammy’s go-to-bed rituals and then return to the lobby to fold laundry and keep Francie company while he watched cable tv and ate whatever goodies the women served him. Then back to his room, with many thanks for their helping him take care of Sammy.

The boys would not appear until dawn.

Something about the night spooked them.

(The women never brought up the fact that the brothers should have been in school. Not the first family on the move they had sheltered. Never a call to CPS unless they saw abuse. And it had to be bad to pull the kids from their parents into the waiting arms of well-meaning but overburdened local social service agencies.)


	2. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy and Dean are afraid of the dark. Sammy is trying to be a hero, but Francie does not know why. And she decides she is going to help.

It had been a cold day. No sunshine, which was uncommon for Colorado. Snow bands had left another couple of inches on the ground.

The boys had been there almost a week; still no sight of their father.

Dean scraped the first layer of snow off the sidewalk and burned through his morning chores. Left Sammy to his studies.

A quartet of college students on their way to Grand Junction, loud but harmless, made themselves at home in the breakfast area. They were bundled up in the kind of designer gear that deludes the wearers into thinking that they are some kind of mountain men. Not bad kids. Left extra money after they devoured the last loaf of raisin walnut cinnamon bread (another treasure from the grocery store’s bake shop) and drank the coffee pot dry twice.

And they noticed Sammy, noticed his shabby clothes, and his unkempt hair–Francie was itching to give him an upscale trim–and his pile of college texts. Moved in, but they were smiling. A little condescending, but no smirks or touching.

If Dean had been around, he would have shielded his brother from the mischievous young men.  But May watched Sammy’s reaction to their interest. He didn’t look distressed, so she felt it was safe to start cleaning rooms. Promised herself she would check on him every few minutes but got distracted. It was an hour until she was back in the lobby.

Sammy had his head down, nose buried in the Latin textbook, a glass of milk and a sliced and toasted bagel smeared with cream cheese and strawberry jam waiting for his next break.

\-----

Francie came in around lunch time to discuss the quarterly tax filing and the new, wonderful problems hatched by the profits the motel was ringing up. The accountant was working on a new business model to protect May’s assets from the confiscatory policies of the government. Meaning, better shield May’s money so she could start building her nest egg for the future.

Both women had been upstairs immersed in a long talk about what big maintenance projects could not be put off and the benefits versus the expense of having the building painted, including a new sign that could be seen from the interstate. Counting on the bell on the counter–or Sammy–to alert them to the first check-ins.

The frantic dinging from the front desk surprised both women, who comically looked up from the piles of computer printouts like meerkats in a nature movie, scouting for snakes and jackals.

“Coming,” yelled May, and she whipped down the stairs, confronted by a crabby family of five. They were on their way to a family reunion in Utah from Illinois but wisely decided to stay the night and avoid the regularly scheduled high-country blizzard. Mom was the one who had been banging on the bell.

May booked them the two larger adjoining rooms at the end of the property at a discount and mollified the adults with hot coffee and the kids with those epic glazed donuts.

After they thanked her and left to unpack their car, May glanced over and noticed that Sammy’s table was empty. No books.

No Sammy.

And that’s when she heard the methodical scraping of cheap steel against the crumbling concrete walk.

Glanced out the front window, where the sky was beginning to darken. The downside of living at the eastern edge of the foothills of a major mountain range was that the sun disappeared early.

Sammy was partially obscured by the latest eddy of flakes. He was wrestling with one of the steel snow shovels from the storeroom, as tall as he was. On the ground next to him was an open, twenty-pound bag of rock salt, the kind rural feed and garden stores brand with garish logos. Wasn’t from the motel's inventory.

He would lift a scoopful of snow, dump it out of the way, and repeat to clear a piece of the sidewalk. Then, using a Big Drink cup liberated from the nearby gas station (or the trash in the breakfast nook), sprinkle a generous topping of the salt on the freshly cleared concrete. Then pull the bag along a few feet with one hand while he dragged the shovel with the other, and scoop, dump, and salt again.

So why was Sammy cleaning the walk? Dean could take care of it in a fraction of the time and, May thought ruefully, use a fraction of the salt. The boy was shoveling with a sense of urgency, partly, she guessed, to keep warm, but also with dedicated purpose, as if it were an important job with a deadline.

Dean was nowhere in sight. He might be out on one of his excursions, but May had peeked into the window of the boys’ room the day after they moved in and saw him sound asleep on one of the twin beds in the middle of the day. Tired out from being a surrogate parent at what May realistically estimated was 14 years old.

Did not want to disturb the older boy if he was napping. But May had enough with tiptoeing around the brothers’ ill-considered pride.

Went to the front door of the lobby and opened it wide. Frowned at the blast of cold, wet air. Hugged herself and yelled for Sammy. He looked up, and she waved him in. He dragged the shovel and the salt to the door and stumbled across the threshold.

The boy was a mess. His nose was cherry red, his lips were blue, and tears and melted snow streamed down his face, soaking his bangs.

“Let’s get you warmed up,” May said, in her best drill sergeant’s voice. Made Sammy giggle.

She pulled off the canvas jacket. No more protection from the weather than that of a wet sponge.

“Arms up!” she barked. Couldn’t stop the smile.

Sammy obeyed without hesitation. She pulled off the outer sweater, which already was soaked through. He was shivering.

“Where’s Dean?”

The little boy shook his head.

“Okay, here’s what we’ll do. You’re going to go up to my apartment and grab a towel from the bathroom. I’m going to bring you some dry clothes and have you take a shower to warm up first before you change. Then hot chocolate and cookies, and _then_ you are going to tell me what the heck you were thinking. Wait for me.”

Francie had come down the stairs and saluted the boy from behind the check-in counter. They could hear the first convoy of trucks wending their way into the parking lot.

“It’s okay, cutie-pie,” the night auditor said. “I’ll man the barricades.” The boy blushed and grinned, then scampered upstairs.

May strode into the little cubbyhole that Francie called the “executive office” and pulled out the big cardboard box from the corner, the one labeled “Lost and Lost” in Francie’s neat block letters. In it was the flotsam and jetsam left by former motel room occupants, including clothing that could fit Sammy. And maybe Dean.

Amazing what people left behind, forgotten in a drawer or at the bottom of a closet. Travel was disorienting, particularly if you are on the road with kids.

Francie would call or e-mail customers, but most didn’t seem to care about old clothing. Life was moving too fast. Keep the stuff, the ones she reached would tell her. Pass it on.

She got on her knees and began plundering the box.

Pulled red mittens, a soft black wool scarf, thick sports socks­ still in the plastic wrapper, a colorful beanie advertising a local hardware store chain, and a pair of old-style ladies’ galoshes that might fit over Sammy’s worn out sneakers. Ugly but serviceable.

Francie rummaged through another layer. Pulled out anything that she thought might fit either brother. Found pajamas, slippers, and a set of kid’s superhero underwear that Sammy could grow into. A paper bag filled with t-shirts and men’s underwear, purchased but left in the breakfast nook as the family made a quick getaway to avoid rush hour at the beginning of a three-day weekend holiday.

Stuff that would pass for unisex–a dark green cardigan, a smallish bathrobe in blue, more gloves and mittens, fuzzy yellow slippers, odd pairs of socks, leather slip-ons that could pass for loafers, a couple of _Denver Broncos_ hoodies from past seasons. A pair of sweatpants in the team’s ugly orange and blue color combo, and a dark grey sweater that would fit Dean. Rubbed it against her cheek and checked the label.  Name-brand cashmere. No jeans, but some worn chinos that still were better than what the boys were wearing.

May rolled the clothes into a bundle and hugged it to her chest. She settled back on her heels and rocked forward rising to her feet. Then headed out from the cubbyhole and up the stairs, nodding to Francie and the first eddy of customers.

Francie gave her a thumbs-up.


	3. The Snipe Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy lives up to his Hunter heritage to protect the motel from the demon. Francie is schooled by Sammy regarding the Supernatural.

Sammy was standing barefoot in her living room, stripped down to his worn jeans and the too-big black t-shirt with its washed-out psychedelic art. May dumped the clothes on the floor and handed the boy the underwear, the pjs, the fuzzy slippers, and the bathrobe and pointed to the bathroom.

“Shower, warm up. You can use the soap and shampoo on the shelf. More towels are in the cabinet.”  
  
She assumed correctly that he would be able to figure out the shower on his own.

He took the clothes, murmured his thanks, and scurried in.

Closed the door. She could hear the water turn on almost immediately.

Took the clothes he left. Wouldn’t hurt to run them through the laundry but was concerned that the sneakers wouldn’t survive. A Sears department store down the road would have cheap but sturdy replacements.

Sammy came out maybe 20 minutes later, smelling of the holiday shampoo her sister gave her, like cinnamon and Christmas trees. So young and adorable, swimming in the slightly too-big flannel pajamas and the bathrobe. The slippers fit perfectly.

His long hair was a mess, towel-dried. She found her purse on a side table and pulled out a comb. Motioned him over and carefully ran it through his brown locks, shot with red and gold.

May then sat down on the couch and patted the space next to her. Sammy came over and sat down.

He looked worried and stared at the ground.

“Why were you shoveling the walk? I thought that was Dean’s job,” asked May.

“I’m supposed to listen to Dean and do what he tells me to do,” he said.

“I know, but what did he tell you?”

“Ms. May, I am not supposed to tell you. It’s a secret. It’s a big secret. My dad would get really angry with me if I did.

He looked scared.  
  
“Sammy, would your father hurt you?” she asked. Maybe she had misjudged the situation and needed to make a phone call.

“Oh no, my dad’s a hero. And Dean is, too.”

The boy was shaking again, but not from the cold.

“Okay, okay. Don’t worry.” She gave him a one-armed hug.

“Let’s get that hot chocolate.”

One of May’s minor luxuries was really good cocoa for making the best hot chocolate. Sammy sat at May’s tiny kitchen table and watched in fascination as she made a paste of water and cocoa powder in a two-fisted mug, mixed in the sugar, stirred in the whole milk and imported vanilla, and stuck the mug into the microwave.

Sammy pushed the buttons.  
  
Then, she took out the package of colored miniature marshmallows from the cupboard. Spooned on enough to cover the entire surface of the steaming liquid, which smelled pretty much like Heaven.

And there were cookies, thick oatmeal cookies with walnuts, designed for dunking. From a real cookie jar. From the bakery, of course.

After the hot chocolate and three cookies, Sammy looked more like a human boy and a little less like a frozen replicant.

“Sammy, please tell me. No one is going to get you or your family in trouble.”

Sammy played with the end of the tie on his bathrobe.

“Why were you shoveling the walk?”

He took a breath and exhaled.

“Trying to protect you. I don’t think it’s too late. Let me get dressed. I’ll go out. Dean and my dad would want me to finish the job.”

“Protect me from what? What job?”

The boy leaned towards her, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“I guess I can tell you, because it’s your motel being stalked. Those college dudes told me. You won’t believe me, but that’s okay. People don’t believe Dean and Dad, but it’s better that way. Most people are better off not knowing.”

This was gospel he was repeating, thought May. A speech he had heard many times.

“Protect me from what? What’s stalking the motel? Please, Sammy,” said May.

His fear seemed genuine, and he didn’t seem like the kind of kid who would make something up.

Another deep breath.  
  
“A snipe demon,” said the boy, and waited for May’s reaction.

The hardest thing the woman ever did in her life was to not laugh out loud at the boy. She chewed out the inside of her cheeks trying to control her smile. But Sammy was too smart to be fooled.

“I get it,” he said. “You don’t believe in demons.”

“It’s not that, Sammy. Have not thought much about demons outside of comic books and horror movies. But, to be perfectly honest, I am more…concerned about you going on what we call a snipe hunt. Did those college boys tell you there was a snipe on the property?”

Sammy looked puzzled.

“I asked them if it was a demon, and they said yes. Told me I was really smart to know. I’ve just started to study demons. And vampires. And ghosts. Mostly ghosts. Salt and burns. That’s what Dean and Dad do. Mostly. And there’s a really bad demon…killed my mom…Dean and Dad save people.”

This all came out in a rush.

“Not supposed to tell people. They won’t understand. But I know how to protect people from demons.”  
  
Sammy looked very small and sad. May realized that disappointing his brother and father was just about as bad as any physical punishment.  
  
“Okay, Sammy, it’s going to be okay. You tell me what the boys told you. It’s not your fault. I guess there are demons in the world, actually makes sense, now that I think about it. But I am not sure about snipes.”

“Snipes are real. They’re birds. But there are different kinds of snipes. So, I figured out that a snipe demon must be some kind of bird demon.”

He hesitated, seeing the amused look on May’s face.

“Tell me what happened with the college boys,” she said, bringing the boy back on track.

Sam rambled a bit, and May made some educated guesses to fill in the blanks in his story.  
  
Sam had been studying some really cool Greek stories about wars.

“Well, yeah, I read Latin and Greek, Dad and Uncle Bobby say that every good Hunter needs to know Latin and Greek. And Hebrew. Gonna learn Hebrew from Pastor Jim. Dean says it’s better to know how to shoot straight. I’m already really good with knives. Can I throw something?”

Okay, we’ll let May tell the story, with her educated guesses to fill in the gaps. Maybe she’ll let Sammy throw some knives later.

The college dudes, nice guys with younger brothers and sisters who they protected fiercely but loved to tease (sound familiar?), noticed the boy with the stack of books. Went over to see what he was reading. Duly impressed, of course, but didn’t think he was reading the books, maybe just “playing college”.

Two of the dudes had attended twelve years of Catholic school, meaning they endured four years of Latin. [Editor’s note: I liked my four years of Latin.] One of them picked up the Latin text and opened to the first chapter. With some hesitation, he translated the first paragraph slowly, reading each line first in Latin, then in English.

_Villa est villa Romana._

_Villa non est parva._

_Villa est antiqua._

Handed the book to Sammy. The boy took the open book without a word.

Sammy knew it was some kind of contest, and his father and brother told him many times that he shouldn't bring attention to himself. But, he still was a boy with something to prove.

So, he smiled his deceptive little kiddo smile, looking up at the college dudes through those cute bangs. They should have seen it coming. If they would try this a couple of years in the future, the kid with the hazel puppy eyes would have laid money on the table first.

Then Sammy closed the book and handed it back to the dude who had been translating those first few lines.

“Pick a page,” said Sammy.  
  
The college dudes look at each other and rolled their eyes.

“Okay, Ovid,” said one of the Latin scholars, not unkindly, and opened the book in the middle and handed it back.

Sammy smiled and began to read. Steadily, a sentence in Latin, a sentence in English. Without hesitation. Without a pause. The four college students stood and watched open-mouthed as he worked his way down the page.

The other Catholic school graduate grabbed the book out of Sammy’s hand and scanned the page he had been translating. Looked up at his friends and nodded. Closed the book and handed it back to Sammy.

The boy looked down at the table. Couldn't hide the smile.

The college guys couldn’t help themselves. Bested by a ten-year-old? Nope, and nope.

“So,” said one of the college boys. “what do you know about snipes?”

He was the one whose grasp of Latin had been found wanting.

Sammy looked up suspiciously. Too easy a question. Is this a contest, too?  
  
“It’s a bird. Likes to be near water.”

“Yeah, but there is another kind of snipe. Dangerous. You are a smart kid. Don’t you know about the other kind of snipes? Or snipe hunts?

Sammy thought.

“My brother and dad are hunters. Maybe they know. Or I should tell them.

The college boys looked worried; didn’t want to explain their little joke to protective family members, particularly if they owned guns. But Sammy, who misread their concern, explained that although he had never heard of his big brother or father hunting snipe, he was sure they could handle one. Or more. Mentioned Dad was away while he and Dean lived at the motel, and Dean was out running errands. Would be back in a couple of hours.

“Yeah, you do that. Better tell the men in the family. You know, if I were you, I’d be careful. Usually, if the weather was better, we’d take you out for a hunt. But…given the snow and cold…you better stay inside. Dangerous for a little guy like you.”

“What about the motel? Ms. May and Ms. Francie, are they safe?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

 Sam looked frightened, and the college student reconsidered. He wasn’t mean, just wanted to prank the kid. A little innocent payback for a minor humiliation.

“As long as they mostly keep inside, I think the ladies and the other people staying at the motel should be safe. But, after dark, better be careful. Just don’t know. Take care, kid.”

College dude ruffled Sammy’s hair, and they left. Figured their faithful four-wheel-drive Tahoe could get them through anything short of an avalanche.

So, Sammy went back to studying. Took up the Latin book. Fixed himself a treat as a reward. And thought about snipe demons.

After Francie arrived, and she and May went upstairs, he took his books back to the room, and did the math: how many bags of rock salt versus the square footage of the walk. He knew May had salt stashed in her storeroom–Dean had shown him where the cleaning supplies were–and he could use a couple of the bags that Dean had dragged out of the trunk of the Impala.

(May didn’t think twice about the family carting around bags of salt or storing them in the room. She saw the Kansas license plates. In what some people called the Mountain and Plain states, including Colorado and Kansas, pretty much everyone carried extra salt. And if you were driving through Colorado, where it could snow 12 months out of the year in the high country, carrying your own supply was a given.)

“See, demons and ghosts and certain monsters can’t cross a salt line. And it soaks into concrete, so even though it’s snowing outside, the mix of salt and snow and ice would protect you.”

Sammy finished his story and now was lecturing May about the Supernatural. May was fascinated. And conflicted. Did not know if the boys were safe in this fantasy world their father had concocted. But her immediate concern was for Sammy.  
  
First, she convinced the boy–over more hot chocolate and cookies–that there probably were no such thing as snipe demons, because the college boys wouldn’t be in a position to know, and he had never heard Dean, his father, or any of the other hunters mention them.

Second, unless he felt a compelling need to tell his brother and father what happened, she thought he could just chalk it up to experience. Maybe get a scolding from Dean for staying out in the cold and wet too long. No harm, no foul.

Sammy agreed it was for the best. He confessed that there was always stuff going on that the boys didn’t tell their father or each other. Even then, the boy knew his family was too good at keeping secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My older sister called during her first semester of college that she was going on a snipe hunt with some boys and girls she knew. I was seven years younger, but even I knew it was a scam. But my father was torn. Tell her the truth and hurt her feelings? Let her go on the hunt and sit out in the chill all night with a burlap bag? He decided it would be better if she caught cold. She called us the next day, puzzled that she never caught the snipe. But, her friends told her they liked that she was a good sport and told her the truth. All ended well.
> 
> The snipe hunt was definitely a regional prank. More rural, but it was more of a "thing" in those days, and a common high school or college coming-of-age practical joke.


	4. Cashmere and Pie

About that point in the conversation Sammy and May heard shouting in the lobby and the sound of Dean pounding up the steps to May’s apartment. He rushed in and skid to a stop. Cold and wet, like Sammy had been. Babbled about stopping by the room to look for Sammy, noticing the books were on his bed and one of the salt bags were gone. And then finding the salt by the front door of the motel and no Sammy inside.

He stared at Sammy as if he were one of the little boy’s fabled ghosts. The sight of his brother in a normal set of pajamas, a robe, and slippers, with his hair combed and sporting a hot chocolate mustache, was a shock.

Like seeing a glimpse of an alternative universe May told Francie later that week, as they deconstructed their impressions of the boys over a pair of hot chocolates spiked with peppermint schnapps: the iconic Smuggler.

While Dean stood transfixed, May took the opportunity to grab a few items from the lost box pile.

“Dean?” she said. “Dean?”  
  
Got his attention, finally.

“Sammy was nice enough to agree to help me today. The lost and found box in my office is overflowing, and I was planning to take everything to a thrift store. He said he would take what he could. What about you? Could you take some things, please?? It would be a favor. Hey, and why don’t we have a pizza party? I’ll check in with Francie. We can take turns watching the front desk.”

Sammy turned the full power of those hazel eyes, glinting through his bangs, on his vulnerable older brother. If someone had told May that Dean literally would someday storm Heaven and Hell to save his baby brother, May would not be surprised.

May let the little boy sell his older brother on the nice shower and the soft towels and good-smelling soap. (Even then, Dean was a sucker for great water pressure.) Dean picked through the pile and decided on the Bronco hoodie and pants, something he knew a “normal” teenager in Colorado would wear. Let him fit in better. Sammy gave May the names of the favorite family celebration pizzas– _meatlover with bacon_ and _veggie special_ –and she called it in and doubled the order. Remembered as a kid how good leftover pizza tasted for breakfast. Watched Sammy munch through two more of those big oatmeal cookies. Called the pizza place back and told them she needed three extra-large of each, not two.

That night was fun. Felt a little like Christmas ought to be, Sammy said, with all the nice clothes and fancy food.

Two of the truckers were happy to finish the shovel and salt of the property for beer money; were very grateful for the 10% Francie knocked off the price of their rooms.

May washed the boys’ clothes. Stuck their tennis shoes into a laundry net bag, washed them on delicate/cold water, and held her breath. They came out just fine and survived the dryer the same way. When she gave the boys their clean tennies and clothing, she included the laundry net bag as well. Told them how it would make their clothing last longer.

Folded up the rest of the clothing and stacked them into two clean garbage bags. Easy to tuck into the corner of a motel room or car trunk.

And then there was the grey cashmere sweater. Francie demonstrated why she had graduated with honors from the University of Chicago Business School. That woman knew how to negotiate, even with someone as stubborn as Dean.

Francie told Dean that the sweater was expensive, not because it was for snooty people, but because the wool came from rare animals who were able to live in bitter cold, in the highest mountain passes. The yarn spun from the undercoat was stronger and lighter than wool, so the sweater provided extra warmth without the bulk.

“It’s not about fashion,” said Francie. “It’s about having the best tool for the job.”  
  
Dean kept the sweater until he outgrew it. By that time, it fit Sammy, but just for a year or so. It lived in the bottom of Dean’s duffle bag for years and eventually found a permanent spot in the bottom of a drawer in his Bunker bedroom, the place where Dean kept things that reminded him of happy times.

\-----

Everything changed after that night. Dean was less the cocky teen and more the friendly boy who loved to eat and play games with his younger brother. Would hug the women before he went to bed.

Started doing more handyman chores. Anything that needed a screwdriver or involved a motor the older boy could fix. And he glowed under the women’s lavish praise.

And Sammy talked and talked and talked. And talked. About everything and anything. Francie and May were willing audiences. Actually, Francie was delighted. Loved kids. Loved smart kids.

Sammy let on that Dean loved pie. May walked over to the grocery store and asked to meet the ex-military bakery manager to discuss a special order. His name was Roger. For some reason, they spent an hour discussing pies. The next day he showed up with a pie. And the next day. And the next. Refused payment. Said it was nice to have an appreciative audience. Brought thermoses of gourmet coffee. Containers of soup and casserole dishes from the deli department.

Francie and the boys exchanged looks, which May and Roger, the chef, never noticed.

But no mention was made of hunting monsters. And no word from their father.

Two more weeks. May and Francie talked about what to do. Francie considered kidnapping the younger boy and placing him in the best gifted program in the state. But the local school district was good, and they had several programs for kids like Sammy. And Francie’s old law firm had people who could sort out the legalities of keeping the brothers with them.

When they discussed the subject of school with the boys, Sammy lit up, but Dean looked sad. Told the women he was too stupid for a real classroom. To their surprise, Sammy yelled at Dean and told him that he was smart, really really smart, and to not put himself down. Wow.

Looking back, the boys knew wht was going to happen, but they were determined to enjoy their time at the motel as long as they could.

And then an old truck pulled up to the motel with South Dakota plates.

Uncle Bobby was greeted with laughs and hugs. Both brothers were thrilled to see him. Dragged him in to meet May and Francie. Both boys, talking at once, told him everything that had happened the last three weeks, Sammy leaving out the snipe demon fiasco.

“Okay, boys,” he said. “Time to go. Your daddy got tied up with business down in Texas. Couldn’t get away. Asked me to come get you. We’re going back to Sioux Falls. Need to keep me company. And the dogs miss you both. Time for a visit.”

The boys ran to their motel room. Bobby stayed behind to talk to the women, who had watched the happy reunion in silence.

“You have done right by my boys. Hell, I ain’t their real uncle; they are sort of like my adopted kids. Their daddy is a good man, but since their mother died, he is…obsessed. Don’t know what the boys told you. Frankly, I would take them away if I could, but they adore him. He doesn’t beat him or nothing like that. If he did, I would handle it myself. But, he forgets. I think he forgets his own children, sometimes. Drinks too much. Wounded.”

Bobby smiled.

“Never seen them happier.”

He pulled out a thick roll of bills, but May turned away to hide the tears streaming down her face. Francie was braver. She stepped forward and pressed her hand against Bobby’s.

“No thank you, sir,” she said. “It was our privilege and pleasure.”

He nodded. Still managed to hide the money in the top drawer of the front desk, for Francie to discover that night.

The boys returned, rosy-cheeked and breathless. Obviously, going to stay with Uncle Bobby was a treat.

“We loaded the truck. Can I drive?” asked Dean. Bobby pretended to weigh the question. A little dance they had done before.

“When we get back, on the property. You know the rules.”

Dean beamed.

Sammy walked up to the women. Francie was hugging May. They broke apart to greet the boy.

Dean and Bobby watched.

“We’ll be back. Don’t cry.” He looked determined.

“You’ll always be welcome,” said May.

The daily evening box of donuts had already arrived, and May thrust it in the boy’s hands.  
  
“For the road.” An excuse for her to call Roger for another shipment, she said.

\------

Roger and May became an item. Married. Roger found the right property on the abandoned industrial park a block from the motel and opened his own bakery and coffee shop.

Francie managed the business side for both. She had a whole new customer base to flirt with. May stuck to her guns and made sure the motel, even with upgrades like wi-fi and premier cable, was affordable for the truckers and working class folks who came through, looking for cheap and good.

And Dean and Sammy came back, sometimes with their father, sometimes with Bobby, or other men and women who called themselves Hunters. One of those bigger rooms at the end of the property were reserved for them, even when the place was filled up.

Would touch base. Treated it like a vacation. Another home.

May and Francie watched the boys grow up into fine young men. And came to realize that they did important work. And, finally, over single malt whiskey and one of Roger’s pecan pies, Dean and Sam told May and Francie and Roger the truth. Well, some of it. Three shots of the good stuff and tipsy Sam told his version of the story of Sammy and the Snipe Demon. Dean laughed so hard he fell off his chair. Good times.

Sam finally got to throw ten of Roger’s third-best knives into a homemade target. Ten bullseyes.

The father, John, died. Strange things happened, things that Bobby, Dean, and Sam knew too much about. Sometimes years would go by without a word, and then the Impala would appear, like the Flying Dutchman, portending evil, out of the tail end of a blizzard that dumped a foot of snow in a day or one of those slow-moving, giant supercells that filled dry creeks to overflowing and scoured the Platte River with 10-foot tall tsunamis of water and debris.

The men, Dean and Sam, broad-shoulder and tall, would hug Francie and May until their old bones creaked. Roger would deliver a pie, or three.

If they stayed, Dean would scout the property for repairs that needed to be made, and Sam and Francie would sit, shoulder-to-shoulder, checking the computer system for upgrades to install.

Bobby died. And, through a couple of slips of the tongue, May, her husband, and her best friend realized that both of the two good men had died, more than once. Had bested Hell and Heaven, God and Death and the Devil.

\-----

If you would happen to visit the motel today, you would admire the latest paint job, which includes a mural on the front wall of a peaceful white beach under blue skies, with a small flock of shore birds pecking in the shallows.

Open the lobby door and inhale the intoxicating odor of donuts and pie and strong coffee. Meet the two white-haired ladies who run the place  with the help of a couple of interns–hospitality business majors from the nearby community college. (There’s a waiting list.)

If the Impala is parked outside, you might see Sam and Dean, long legs stretched out from beneath a side table in the breakfast nook, papers and laptops taking over every spare inch. Or, Dean would be lounging on the comfy couch in front of a state-of-the art, high-definition television, watching  a football game with a couple of truckers, drinking clandestine beer, and sharing a pizza. Sam would be sitting at a breakfast table with his latest laptop, a giant slice of some exotic veggie quiche that Roger whipped up on a dinner plate in front of him. He would be close enough to keep up with the game but still able to troll the Internet for info for their next case.

Both Dean and Sam look happy.

Are you sure you're in the right place? Go outside and check the sign, big enough to be seen from Interstate 70 as you head into the foothills.

_Shelter from the Storm.  
_

**Author's Note:**

> The event with the Internal Revenue Service happened to me. Our topnotch accountant flooded the IRS with paperwork, and the IRS apologized. In writing.
> 
> Often times big chain grocery stores have awesome bakeries and delis, because they snag experienced cooks looking for a change.
> 
> The quote about career choices and the mob came from my parents, who grew up in one of those immigrant neighborhoods. Knew many smart girls like Francie, who started in poverty and ended up lawyers and doctors.


End file.
